The fabric of the nation + 18% GST
Our heritage is hand spun, handwoven and handmade in India
Every brand lives or dies on the value of its equity. Nations are no different. India’s cultural equity — its handlooms, textiles, and craft traditions — is one of the strongest sources of soft power we have. Yet, our tax policies often fail to recognize that heritage is not just culture, but strategy.
Consider the new GST rules: handloom and handicraft products under ₹2,500 are taxed at 5%, while anything above faces 18%. A silk sari that takes months of skilled weaving naturally crosses this threshold and is categorized as a luxury good. Meanwhile, a machine-made polyester sari, priced strategically lower, enjoys the reduced rate. On paper, the arithmetic looks logical. But what are we really measuring?
The price of a handloom sari is not a markup for indulgence. It is the sum of weeks of labor, generational knowledge, and cultural continuity. By taxing it like a luxury, we begin to tell ourselves, and the world, that heritage is a privilege, not a birthright.
This framework sends a troubling signal. Synthetic efficiency is rewarded, while sustainable craftsmanship is penalized. A weaver’s inherited expertise, refined across centuries, is placed in the same bracket as conspicuous consumption. The immediate impact is obvious: consumers pay more, artisans earn less. But the deeper cost is cultural. We erode legitimacy, positioning heritage as economically irrational and nudging the next generation to see authenticity as an indulgence they cannot reasonably choose.
Let’s do the math
The consequences ripple across the value chain. They affect the creators of craft, it’s curators, custodians, and customers.
A farmer supplying organic yarn pays higher GST on equipment. A block printer or weaver finds their fair-priced fabric pushed into the 18% bracket. A homegrown boutique in a metropolitan city, built to connect modern professionals to heritage craft, must either cut artisan wages, reduce quality, or pivot to cheaper imports. Even large designers who carry India’s stories abroad find themselves undercut by synthetics in their own domestic market. If every node of the ecosystem is strained, what becomes of the collective brand called “Indian fashion” that the west is so desperate to capitalize on right now?
The consumer side offers another lens to the argument. For the affluent, an extra ₹700 in tax on a handwoven sari is an inconvenience. For the poor, it is exclusion. For the emerging middle class, the very audience that keeps heritage alive by buying a wedding sari, a festive kurta, or a handloom dupatta, the price difference nudges them toward synthetic alternatives. If heritage becomes financially irrational, what happens to the pride of wearing Indian? And what of sustainability, when natural, handmade textiles are priced out while polyester thrives?
From a brand lens, the danger is clear: we are repositioning heritage from being a shared cultural norm to being a luxury niche. And in doing so, we dilute our competitive edge. Heritage is not backward, it is a future-facing asset. The world is looking for sustainable, human-centered, story-rich design. India already has it. Why would we weaken it at home when it can lead abroad?
Perhaps the real question is this: when we speak of “Make in India,” do we mean it as a campaign, or as a commitment to those who have always made India? If “Make in India” is more than a slogan, then our policies must nurture, not penalize, the makers. A flat 5% GST for authentic handloom and handicrafts, subsidies for artisan tools, and simplified compliance for small businesses would not just preserve livelihoods; they would build cultural equity that no machine can replicate.
The real question is not about tax slabs. It is about brand positioning. Do we see heritage as a competitive advantage in the global marketplace, or do we quietly allow it to be taxed out of relevance?